


Safe Harbour

by Celticgal1041



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 01:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2291159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celticgal1041/pseuds/Celticgal1041
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan was infuriating, brash and self-sacrificing, but he was also innocent, impetuous and loyal. Are all younger brothers this much trouble?</p>
<p>Correct chapter 5 uploaded - apologies for the mix-up!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

No one could understand the confusion of battle until they had experienced it. d’Artagnan had often listened to the stories told by other Musketeers, shared in the comfort of a tavern over wine or in the safety of the garrison. As he’d listened, d’Artagnan felt he was ready to face any form of attacker, having been tested in minor skirmishes in the past while helping his brothers perform Musketeer business. It was not until he found himself reacting to Aramis’ cry of “Ambush!” that he felt his heart beat uncontrollably, sending a jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins and making his hands tremble in anticipation.

 

It had been a quiet three days as the four brothers travelled the country roads, returning from their delivery of a letter to a minor noble in the South. Treville had given them an easy assignment in the wake of their fight with Vadim, and had simply stated that he expected them to return by the end of the week. The timeframe given had been more than generous and the four men made their way slowly, stopping when the mood struck them to eat, sleep and simply relish the camaraderie they shared between them.

 

d’Artagnan thought it possible that the relaxed journey had lulled him into a false sense of security, a mistake only an amateur would make given the danger that often lay hidden in the French countryside. He spun his horse neatly around to see if he could spot the danger that prompted Aramis’ cry and his eyes landed immediately on a group of men running from the nearby woods. Applying his heels to his steed’s side, d’Artagnan moved to join his brothers in meeting the attack, pulling his pistol as he did so. Once in range he took his shot, felling one of the men at the front of the group attacking them. Next, he veered to the right, seeing his brothers all moving to engage their own opponents, each having discharged their pistols in the initial attack; as odds went, the group was now fairly evenly matched.

 

A return volley from their attackers was fired to d’Artagnan’s left and he turned his head briefly to confirm that his friends remained unharmed. His glance confirmed that Porthos had dismounted and had just taken out one of their attackers with a brutal strike of his sword to the other man’s chest. Aramis’ was still mounted and was taking aim with his arquebus after replacing his pistol in its holster, and d’Artagnan had every confidence that the other man would hit his target. Athos had stormed his way into the attacking group, engaged in a vicious sword fight with two men and, while other men might have been concerned at the unfair fight, d’Artagnan felt assured that his mentor would emerge victorious.

 

d’Artagnan swung his leg over his horse and slid easily to the ground, drawing his sword as soon as he was down. He ran at one of the men who was about to attack Porthos from behind and, lifting his sword, blocked the attack that would have struck Porthos’ shoulder. Porthos shot him a quick look of gratitude before refocusing on his opponent and d’Artagnan dispatched the man who had cowardly tried to kill his friend from the back. As his opponent fell, d’Artagnan looked around to gauge their progress, finding his friends working to dispatch the remaining men.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, the Gascon caught sight of a shadow moving towards the horses and before he knew it, he watched one of the attackers mount Athos’ horse and swiftly ride away from the clearing where they had fought. Without thought d’Artagnan whistled for his mount, trading a quick look with Aramis who’s attention had been captured by the whistle. Before his horse had even stopped, the Gascon had pulled himself into the saddle and spurred his horse into action. d’Artagnan bent low over his horse’s neck as the horse slowly but surely gained on the other man. Hearing the would-be-Musketeer behind him, the other man pulled his horse to a stop and turned in his saddle to await the Musketeer’s arrival. A grin broke over d’Artagnan’s face as he watched the other man stop and wait for him, and he sat up in the saddle as he slowed his horse to a canter. d’Artagnan’s grin turned to a grimace as he watched the other man pull his pistol and point it at him. Instinctively, the Gascon bent low and kicked his heels, once again speeding toward his attacker. His horse was well-trained but was still not fond of the idea of ramming another horse; d’Artagnan expected this and waited for the moment when his mount would turn away and then leapt from his horse’s back to tackle the other man. His timing was good and his attacker landed underneath as the two men fell and then rolled to a stop several feet away from the two horses. Breathlessly, d’Artagnan raised his arm in preparation for a punch, but one look at the man’s eyes had him lowering it again; sightless eyes stared back at him and from the angle of his head, it was clear that the man had fallen badly and broken his neck.

 

Sighing d’Artagnan pulled himself off the other man’s body and stood, only to be stopped by a sharp pain in his side. The shot - in the swiftness of the chase, he hadn’t thought about where the ball from the man’s pistol had gone and hadn’t felt anything through the haze of danger-induced adrenaline. Now that the danger had passed his side was starting to protest vigorously. d’Artagnan pulled his shirt up to examine his right side where he found a neat hole at his waist slowly leaking blood. A painful twist of his upper body showed a matching hole near his back, which at least meant that the ball wasn’t still in his body. Moving to his saddlebag, D’Artagnan pulled out a bandage and a short length of gauze, binding the wounds quickly in an effort to keep them clean and stop the bleeding. He knew that they likely needed some of Aramis’ needlework, but his ministrations would be sufficient until he returned to the clearing so Aramis could have a proper look.

 

After wiping his hands on his breeches he donned his doublet to add the leather’s extra support to his side and took Athos’ horse’s reins in one hand before mounting his own horse. The movement sent another spike of pain coursing through his side, but he steadfastly clamped his mouth shut against the moan that threatened to escape. Keeping his horse to a walk, he made his way back to the clearing, looking forward to sharing in the post-ambush success they had achieved; however it was not to be. When he arrived, the Gascon saw Porthos sitting against a tree, bent forward with his head cradled in both hands. Closer inspection revealed a white bandage wrapped around his head, spotted with red. Across the clearning,Aramis crouched beside a motionless Athos and d’Artagnan’s heart leapt with fear at the lack of movement from his mentor. Dismounting, the young man tied both horses to a low-hanging branch and moved towards Aramis.

 

Aramis looked up at his arrival and made eye contact with him, shaking his head. “See to Porthos. Someone brained him with a pistol and he needs to stay awake. I need to bandage Athos’ side and then we’ll make our way to nearest inn so I can properly stitch this wound.” D’Artagnan nodded his understanding and changed direction while Aramis turned his attention back to Athos.

 

D’Artagnan crouched carefully in front of Porthos, laying his hand on the man’s shoulder. “Porthos,” D’Artagnan whispered, “how’s your head?”

 

He was rewarded by a half-lidded look that clearly told him what an idiot he was for asking such a stupid question. Now that he had the man’s attention, d’Artagnan moved his other hand to look under the hastily applied bandage, grimacing at the bloodied gash he found underneath.

 

“Porthos, you need to stay awake” d’Artagnan continued as he removed the dirty gauze. He was rewarded by a slight nod that was followed by a groan as the motion sent daggers through Porthos’ fragile skull.

 

“I need to get a clean bandage and them I’m going to clean and re-wrap this, alright?” d’Artagnan waited for a quietly breathed moan that sounded like agreement before squeezing the other man’s shoulder and moving away to retrieve what he needed from Aramis’ bag.

 

As he squatted beside Aramis, his gaze swept over Athos’ pale and sweaty face. “Will he be alright?” d’Artagnan asked.

 

Aramis nodded without looking up. “The ball struck the fleshy part at the top of his shoulder. Any lower and the bullet might have embedded itself in the bone. As it is, he lost a fair bit of blood, but infection setting in will be the biggest risk. I just need to finish bandaging it and then we can see if he’s able to ride. Porthos?”

 

“He’s in a lot of pain and his head’s still bleeding.” d’Artagnan held up the gauze he’d taken from Aramis’ bag. “I’m going to clean and re-wrap it and you’ll need to stitch it, but I think he’ll be fine.”

 

Aramis nodded again and d’Artagnan rose, wincing as the wounds in his side pulled. d’Artagnan roused Porthos once again from his wound-induced stupor, secured a commitment from the other man that he would do his best to stay awake, and then walked to his horse to get a water skin. While he was there, the Gascon took a moment to slide his hand underneath his doublet and shirt, confirming that the bandage was still doing its job and not wanting to alarm Aramis nor take his attention away from his two friends. He was still up and moving, he reasoned, and Aramis would be able to see to his wound at the inn after Porthos and Athos had been seen to. Returning to Porthos’ side, d’Artagnan carefully and efficiently cleaned the laceration on the older man’s temple before wrapping it again in clean, white linen.

 

“Alright, I think we’re ready.” Aramis said as he rose from Athos’ side, securing his bag to his saddle. Catching d’Artagnan’s eye, he asked, “Can you manage Porthos while I get Athos into his seat?”

 

d’Artagnan nodded earning his a smile from Aramis. “Good man. It’ll be slow going and they’re both going to very unhappy but we need to find someplace where their wounds can be properly tended.” With that, the man took the lead to Athos’ horse, bringing it closer to where he lay.

 

d’Artagnan did the same with Porthos’ horse and, with much cajoling and more than a little effort on d’Artagnan’s part, Porthos was finally sitting slumped in his saddle. d’Artagnan drew up the other horse’s reins not trusting Porthos to manage them himself, and they set off at a careful walk to find shelter for the night.


	2. Chapter 2

As they had ridden, the sky turned gray and soon they were covered in a gentle mist that was not quite heavy enough for rain but was too heavy to be considered anything else. Porthos had remained quiet, offering the occassional grunt when d’Artagnan prodded him to stay awake, but otherwise they rode in silence. Up ahead, Aramis had a similar challenge with Athos, who remained steadfastly in his saddle but seemed to be slumping more and more as they rode. Aramis looked behind him and shared a knowing look with d’Artagnan – they would need to find someplace to stop soon or risk the two injured men falling off their mounts and harming themselves further. As if the fates had known how dire their situation was, an inn appeared in the distance as they crested a hill. Aramis again looked back at d’Artagnan, this time a look of relief on his face and the young man felt a knot in his chest release just a bit at the knowledge that his friends would soon be safe and warm, their wounds being taken care of at last.

 

For his part, d’Artagnan was grateful that Aramis rode ahead so that he wouldn’t see the grimaces of pain that were more frequently appearing on his face. He found himself more often slumping in his saddle, trying to relieve the pull on his wounded side, and he now forced himself upright again as they arrived at the inn. A stable boy met them as the two men dismounted, before turning their attentions to their wounded comrades. Aramis seemed to have an easier time of things and he called back to d’Artagnan as he adjusted Athos’ good arm over his shoulder, helping the man to the inn. “I’ll get us a room and get Athos settled. Bring Porthos up and then I’ll need two buckets of water and my supplies brought up.”

 

d’Artagnan nodded – they’d done this enough times to know what was needed and it made sense that he was the one running for supplies so that Aramis could take care of the wounds. He turned his attention back to Porthos who still sat on his horse, looking blearily down at the Gascon through half-open eyes.

 

“Alright Porthos, it’s time to come down so you can lay down on a real bed.” As he said this, he reached up for Porthos’ arms, readying to take his weight and assist the man down to the ground.

 

With little grace, Porthos simply shifted his weight to the side and, before he knew it, d’Artagnan had his arms full of concussed Musketeer, struggling to keep them both upright. He bent down and tucked his shoulder under Porthos’ arm, reaching his arm around to hold him at the waist, and in this fashion the pair stumbled slowly toward the door of the Inn.

 

“Next time,” d’Artagnan panted, “I’m letting Aramis take you,“ he continued as he stared, daunted, at the stairs, “and I’m helping Athos”.

 

He hauled the larger man’s bulk up the steps, breathing heavily. “After all, you’d all feel guilty if I injured myself as a result of your massive bulk”.

 

d’Artagnan pulled him to the top of the stairs, Porthos making eye contact briefly and flashing him a small grin at the young man’s comments. d’Artagnan was pleasently surprised when he saw two beds in the room and he helped Porthos gently lay down on the one that was unoccupied. Standing up straight, he stifled a groan as his wound reminded him that he was less than fit himself and looked over at Aramis who was removing the wadded bandages from Athos’ shoulder.

 

“My supplies if you please. Quickly.” Aramis spoke without turning from Athos and d’Artagnan forced his feet to take him back out of the room to make his request for both cold and boiled water and to retreive Aramis’ medical supplies from his saddlebags.  

When he reached the stables d’Artagnan took a moment to check that the horses had been well-cared for with food and water, and then simply stood braced against Aramis’ horse, willing his heart to stop pounding and the ache in his side to calm. He raised a hand to his face, wiping a sheen of sweat off his forehead and realized unhappily that his hand was trembling. He knew that his wound would require treatment soon and he fervently hoped that Aramis would tend to their friends quickly so that he might have some relief. He gathered Aramis’ medical supplies and steeled himself for the return trip, only to find that the Innkeeper had readied the two buckets of water but had left them at the bottom of the stairs for d’Artagnan to carry. Groaning to himself, the young man made the trip back to their room with Aramis’ bag, dropping it at the medic’s feet before turning around to collect the water buckets. Bracing himself at the bottom of the stairs, d’Artangan bent forward slowly, picking up the two buckets and feeling a sharp stap of pain through his side. He realeased his hold on both buckets, nearly dropping them as he bent forward with a gasp and brought his left hand under his doublet to his injured side. He could feel how wet the bandages were and the trickle of warm blood down his side where it was being absorbed by the waistband of his breeches. Looking to the top of the stairs, he prepared to again the lift the weight of the buckets, determined to help Aramis look after their brothers.

 

The trip upstairs was nearly d’Artagnan’s undoing and he took a minute at the top to rest and slow his breathing before entering their room. Aramis nodded his thanks when the water arrived and proceeded to dip a clean rag into the water to clean around the still seeping shoulder wound. d’Artagnan paused behind him to look at Athos’ face which was slack in either sleep or unconciousness – either would work and would spare his friend the discomfort of having his wound cleaned and stitched; the young man hoped it lasted until Aramis was done.

 

“I’ll need some wine or brandy and then Porthos will need his wound properly cleaned as well. You can leave it uncovered until I’ve stiched it and then we’ll have to take turns waking him during the night,” Aramis said.

 

d’Artagnan grunted in agreement, heading out of the room and back down the dreaded stairs to purchase the spirits that would be needed to help the wounded men with their pain and used to disinfect their wounds. The return trip was as awful as d’Artagnan expected it would be and, after placing two bottles of wine on the table beside Athos’ bed, he lowered himself heavily into the chair next to Porthos’ bed. The older man was once again asleep and d’Artagnan tapped his cheek gently in an effort to rouse him. Porthos rolled his head in an effort to escape the young man’s hand, but the Gascon was persistent and was soon rewarded by two unfocused eyes.

 

“Wha?” the musketeer breathed out.

 

“I need to clean the wound on your head and then Aramis will sew it for you. Do you want some water? Or perhaps wine to ease the pain?”

 

Porthos began to shake his head, stopping when he realized the folly of doing so. “No,” he answered quietly. “Jus’ wanna sleep.” And with that, his eyes once again closed and his face became relaxed as he fell asleep, escaping the pain of his wound.

 

d’Artagnan shook his head in fond amusement, leaned forward carefully to remove the bandage, and meticulously cleaned the jagged laceration underneath. When he was finished, he leaned his head back against the wall behind his chair, stretching his legs infront of him and closed his eyes. This was the position Aramis found him in when he had finished with Athos and turned to his next patient. Aramis’ eyes twinked at the sight of their young friend snoring quietly.

 

“I guess that means I’ll take the first watch my friend,” and he squeezed the Gascon’s shoulder affectionately before sitting on the bed next to Porthos to again put his sewing skills to good use.


	3. Chapter 3

Whatever he was laying on was soft and he was warm. Above him, the wide wooden beams of the ceiling were warmed by the sunshine streaming into the room and, while he had no idea where he was, he felt inexplicably safe. Turning his head slightly his gaze fell upon Aramis, bent uncomfortablly with his head laying on the bed, while the rest of his body sat in a chair. Additional inspection revealed Aramis’ hand over his own – from experience, he knew this was the medic’s way of ensuring he was woken if his patient needed anything. Shifting his gaze beyond his own bed, he found a similar scene being played out on the other side of the room where d’Artagnan dozed in a most uncomfortable position in a chair, while Porthos snored in the other bed. Deciding that it was time to see how badly he felt, Athos moved his hand in preparation to shift, at which Aramis startled and lifted his head. A slow smile spread across Aramis’ face when he saw his patient awake and he brought a cup of water to Athos’ lips, asking “How are you feeling? Are you in much pain?”

 

Athos drained the cup of water, handing it back gratefully, and then cautiously moved his wounded shoulder. He winced as the pain made itself known, but overall it was tolerable and he knew that he would be able to ride. “It’s fine,” he responded to Aramis, who promptly rolled his eyes but nodded in understanding. “How is Porthos?”

 

“He should be fine although he’ll be uncomfortable for a few days. The wound bled a lot, which is to be expected with head wounds, and he’s been dizzy and nauseous. I’m actually surprised we didn’t wake d’Artaganan with his repeated bouts of sickness, but I think the two of you getting hurt hit him hard and he was exhausted.”

 

Athos nodded and moved to get up. “No, you need to stay still for a while longer,” Aramis placed his hand on Athos’ chest. “You bled heavily and I’m sure you’ll feel weak for a few days. Let your body rest while we have the time. It’s still early and there’s no rush.”

 

Athos nodded in agreement and relaxed back into the mound of pillows Aramis had placed behind him. “Do you think we should wake them?” he asked, motioning with his head at their two sleeping friends.

 

Aramis rose and stretched as he answered, “No, let’s let them sleep a little longer. I’ll go down and see what I can get for breakfast and then we’ll wake them so they can eat.”

 

It turned out that the innkeeper’s wife had been expecting them to be hungry and had prepared a basket loaded with fresh baguettes and an assortment of cheeses and meats. Aramis placed the basket on the table and offered Athos a baguette, which the man took, looking pointedly at the bottles of wine. Sighing, Aramis brought the already open bottle over, keeping it out of Athos’ reach. “After this, you switch to water, alright?”

 

The look of disgust on Athos’ face was expected and made Aramis smile, and he handed the bottle over once he received a nod from the older man. Next, Aramis moved to the other bed, placing one had on Porthos’ arm and the other on the man’s cheek.

 

“Porthos…Porthos.” The large man rolled his head in an effort to move away from the voice that was disturbing his sleep, but Aramis was persistent.

 

“Porthos, it’s morning and time for you to wake.” The response was another grumbling attempt to roll over and return to sleep.

 

Aramis winked at Athos, a mischeivious grin on his face. “Porthos, your brothers are in danger and we need your help.” The reaction was almost instantaneous and Aramis leaned back as Porthos’ upper body snapped upwards and the man swung his feet over the side of the bed in preparation to stand. Aramis placed his hands on the man’s shoulders, holding him in place as he swayed dangerously, still trying to seek out the danger to his brothers while attempting to focus through the dizziness that assaulted him from his head wound.

 

“It’s alright, Porthos, be calm. We are all safe and it’s time for you to try and eat something. Are you ready?”

 

Aramis held Porthos’ gaze for several seconds as the other man processed what he’d been told, then nodded minutely as comprehension dawned. Porthos readied himself to stand and Aramis moved to give him room while still staying close enough to keep a hand on his arm so that he could help him up. When Porthos nodded, Aramis pulled slowly on the man’s arm, gently bringing him to an upright position. They stayed that way for several seconds as Porthos adjusted to being vertical and then Aramis helped him walk the few steps to the table, pouring him a cup of water once he was seated.

 

“Well, that’s two taken care of,” Aramis said as he looked over at Athos who was still nursing the bottle of wine. Aramis looked at their youngest member, frowning at the fact that he had managed to sleep through everything that had been going on. Bending over the Gascon, Aramis shook the man’s shoulder gently.

 

“d’Artagnan.” There was no response and Aramis frowned as he tried again. “d’Artagnan, the sun has risen and so must you.”

 

Still, the young man gave no indication of waking. Sighing, Aramis shook harder, earning him a groan and the beginings of awareness from the Gascon. “Don’….please,” d’Artagnan mumbled as the shaking reawakened the pain of his wounds. “Hurts….”

 

Aramis leaned closer to catch the barely audible words and asked with concern “What hurts?”

 

Placing his ear next to the young man’s mouth, he discerned the word “side”. Leaning back, Aramis pulled apart the Gascon’s doublet revealing a large red stain on his shirt. Underneath he found a sodden bandage which hid the cause of the young man’s lethargy and pain – a bullet wound. The discovery pulled a gasp from the medic, which in turn caused Athos to sit forward, a serious look on his face.

 

“What is it Aramis? What’s happened?” Aramis rose and turned to him, reaching for his bag and the second bottle of wine.

 

“He’s been shot.” Aramis made his way angrily back to D’Artagnan. “He’s been shot and he didn’t say anything. Not when I asked him to take care of Porthos; not when I asked him to fetch my supplies; not even when I asked him to haul full buckets of water up the stairs. How could he not say anything?”

 

Aramis’ face held a look of anguish as he knelt infront of the Gascon and prepared to expose the man’s side to get a look at the extent of the damage. At his words, Athos made to get up and Porthos’ head jerked up and looked in his direction. Sensing the change in his friends, Aramis lifted his hands in warning.

 

“No, the two of you, just stop. I will probably need your help later, but for now I need to focus on d’Artagnan. I can’t have you hurting yourselves in misguided attempts to get up and move around before you’re ready. The best thing you can do right now is to stay still and finish your breakfast. Then I’ll check on you both and we’ll decide how best to proceed.”

 

Porthos and Athos shared a look that communicated their dissatisfaction with this arrangement, but also their grudging understanding that Aramis was correct in what he was asking. Neither man was ready to move around on his own and the chances were high that they could collapse and hurt themselves further, creating additional worry and work for their brother. As much as they disliked it, they would need to be patient and wait until Aramis had completed his assessment and treatment of d’Artagnan’s wounds.

 

**_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

 

“I’ve done all I can,” Aramis stated as he straightened from where he’d been sitting next to d’Artagnan, who he’d moved to Porthos’ bed as soon as he’d discovered the man’s untreated wounds. He’d spent the last hour hunched over the young man’s side, diligently cleaning out bits of thread that the ball had forced into the wound when it passed through d’Artagnan’s shirt, and had then disinfected and stitched both wounds before wrapping them firmly with clean bandages which now circled the entirety of the Gascon’s body. The young man had remained quiet throughout, with the only signs of life being the tossing of his head and a few mumbled words when Aramis poured a good amount of wine over both the entry and exit wounds.

 

Placing a hand on the young man’s face, Aramis drew back tiredly, looking around to find the water buckets and assessing the amount of water that was left. “He’s warm. The wounds were left too long and infection has set in.”

 

“This is not your fault Aramis,” Athos placated. “He knows better than to leave wounds untreated and when he’s well again, we will all remind him of his responsibility to stay hale and hearty for his brothers.”

 

Aramis nodded but didn’t make eye contact. He moved to pick up the nearly empty buckets of water, but Porthos’ hand on his made him pause. Looking up, he caught Porthos’ eye, questioning the action.

 

“I’ll get it. You need to rest now or you’ll be no good to anyone.” Porthos nodded toward the bed that had been occupied earlier by Athos before the man had moved slowly and carefully to one of the chairs at the table. “Cold compresses to manage the fever?” Porthos asked as he cautiously bent to gather the water buckets.

 

Aramis nodded, but wasn’t quite ready to give up responsibility for his charges. “I should get the water. Your head,” he pointed at Porthos, “if you lose your balance due to a spell of dizziness on the stairs,” he left the rest of the thought unsaid as he stepped forward to take the bucket from Porthos. For a moment, both men’s hands rested on the handle of the bucket before Porthos acquiesced to the look of concern in Aramis’ eyes.

 

“A’right, but straight to bed when you get back.” Aramis nodded wearily and headed downstairs to refill the bucket at the well. Porthos looked at Athos, his eyes still crinkled with residual pain from the concussion he’d received, but Athos merely raised his uninjured shoulder in a lop-sided shrug.

 

“You know how he is when one of us is hurt,” Athos pointed out placidly.

 

Porthos nodded, “Doesn’t mean I have to like it any better when he runs ‘imself into the ground takin’ care of us.” Athos returned Porthos’ nod.

 

“That’s why we will return the favor of his care by approaching our responsibility to him with the same commitment he shows us.”

 

At that moment Aramis returned with the refilled bucket and placed it next to d’Artagnan’s bed. With pointed looks from both Porthos and Athos, he touched his hand once more to the young man’s head before retreating to the other bed. “Wake me if he gets any worse.” With that, he tumbled into bed, allowing the peace of sleep to provide him a brief respite from the worry that came with treating his fellow Musketeers.


	4. Chapter 4

As the day wore on and the sun moved across the sky, Athos and Porthos took turns by d’Artagnan’s side, pouring water into his mouth when he woke sufficiently to swallow and bathing his neck, chest and face with cool water when he turned restless with fevered sleep. Porthos managed the stairs twice in order to check on their horses, bring back fresh water and more food and wine as the evening shadows returned near the end of the day. Aramis had slept deeply, rising only once to relieve himself, have a drink of wine and confirm that his patient was no worse – no better either, but he was at least holding his own – and then returned to sleep once again. It was as Porthos returned with their evening meal that Aramis returned to wakefulness, his stomach grumbling appreciatively at the aromatic stew, reminding him that it had been far too many hours since his last meal. As he rose from the bed, Porthos grinned, pushing a bowl in his direction. Aramis seated himself at the table and gratefully dug into the hearty stew, moaning in appreciation as the food sated his hunger.

 

“Any change?” he asked between bites.

 

Porthos shook his head. “No change but his fever’s no worse. We’ve managed to get some water into him when he’s woken, but he never really seemed to recognize us or know what was going on.”

 

Aramis nodded. “And Athos?” he questioned, looking over at the older man who had fallen asleep next to d’Artagnan’s bedside.

 

“He’s spent most of the day caring for the boy. I tried to get him to rest a couple times, told him I’d take over for a bit, but you know what he’s like when it comes to d’Artangagn.”

 

Aramis nodded again. They had both seen the change in Athos since d’Artagnan had wheedled his way into their midst. What started out as stern annimosity towards the boy’s unchecked exuberance had softened to concerned annonyance and they both knew that Athos cared deeply for the young man’s future and wellbeing. Step by small step Athos had begun to guide his young protégé, showing him how to prepare supplies for longer missions, teaching him the court etiquette that was a necessary part of their service at the palace, and sparring with him and correcting his form, ensuring that critical flaws in his swordwork wouldn’t result in gaping holes in the boy’s defenses.

 

Most importantly though were the occassional looks of encouragement that the boy needed as badly as he needed sustenance to survive. The signs were often subtle, but Porthos and Aramis noted the softening of the older man’s eyes when berating the young man to think before acting; they caught the rare placement of Athos’ hand at d’Artagnan’s neck, which would make the young man dip his head in pleasure; and they observed how Athos drank less on stormy nights, making sure that the Gascon was with his brothers late into the night – too late to return to his own lodgings – so he’d invariably spend the night with his friends, keeping at bay the nightmares of another rainswept evening when his father was killed.

 

When they had gone after Vadim, Athos was torn between responsibility for the King’s protection and his desire to keep the young man safe. He’d argued passionately all of the reasons why d’Artagnan should not participate in the subterfuge that eventually led to Vadim’s death, but that had only hardened the Gascon’s resolve to make his mentor proud of his efforts. A well-timed hand placed on Athos’ arm by Aramis interrupted Athos’ rant and had him examining his protégé who stood stiffly at the harsh words being said in front of Captain Treville. Treville, for his part, was also watching Athos closely, trying to decide whether Athos’ concerns were warranted or simply born of fear for the young man’s safety. When Athos realized the attention and tension his words had garnered, he caught Treville’s eye and stated, “We’ll explain to the boy what to expect in the Chatelet and how he can best keep himself alive with someone like Vadim.” With that, he turned and exited the Captain’s office, but not before seeing the wide grin that d’Artagnan wore at his mentor’s acceptance of the mission.

 

During the time that d’Artagnan had spent in the prison, Athos adopted a façade of calm, acting almost dismissive of the fact that one of their own was placing his life in peril for the sake of France. When they found d’Artangan missing and blood on the floor of the abandoned house, the look on Athos’ face was equal parts ferocity and anguish, and his two brothers knew that none of them would rest untl the boy was once again secure in their midst and those who had caused him to come to harm had been brought to justice. Athos’ relief upon finding d’Artangan alive and mostly unharmed shifted rapily to anger at the boy’s lack of self-preservation at having pursued Vadim out of the tunnels rather than allowing the Musketeers to deal with him. As he grasped d’Artagnan’s arms, he harshly reprimanded the young man for his foolishness, reminding him that a Musketeer could not succumb to such lapses in judgement, lest they bring harm to their brothers as well as to themselves.

 

Athos’ words left d’Artagnan empty inside. He was ashamed at having disappointed his mentor and, even worse, given additional credence to the belief that he had no place among them as a fellow Musketeer. As he turned to walk away he stumbled, and Aramis and Porthos shared a look of concern as their gazes moved rapidly between the retreating man and Athos, who now stood still, his criticism of the young man having exhausted him. Before he had taken more than ten steps, d’Artaganan stumbled again, reaching out with his hand to find support as he swayed. Aramis glared at Athos over his shoulder as he moved to take his place next to the Gascon, grasping his hand and moving close to murmur in the young man’s ear. Porthos had taken Athos’ arm to prompt him into motion, a gesture that was brushed off almost immediately, but had the desired effect of moving them forward, following the other two out of the tunnels and back into the daylight.

 

They had ended up at Aramis’ lodgings, d’Artagnan almost dead on his feet from the stress of the mission and the blow to his head. Once there, Athos had watched as the other two men helped the boy undress and settle onto Aramis’ bed. Aramis whispered words of comfort to their nearly asleep charge as he gently prodded at the boy’s head wound, examined his chest and stomach for any hidden hurts, and tsked unhappily at the damaged and torn skin present on both wrists. Porthos in the meantime kept a restraining hand on Athos’ arm as he watched the older man’s desire to alternately jump forth and comfort the Gascon, and turn away and hide himself in several bottles of wine. When Aramis was finally done he smiled at the other men. “He’ll be fine. His wrists are a bit torn up and his chest is bruised, but the head wound closed on its own and now I think he’s just tired. When he wakes we’ll need to get some food into him but I’d wager that he won’t stay resting for long.”

 

Athos released a shuddering sigh and nodded gratefully to Aramis. “Then it’s time I reported our success to the Captain and had Vadim’s body taken care of.”

 

As he turned to leave, Aramis looked pointedly at Porthos, who turned to follow Athos from the room. “I’d best be going with you. Nothing else I can do here anyway.”

 

Athos didn’t respond but the slight hitch in his step let the two men know that Athos understood what was happening and that he appreciated the gesture. Later he would find a tavern and drink until the worry and emotions of the past few days dulled and allowed him to sleep, and Porthos would be by his side to make sure he made it back to his bed before the dawn.

 

Aramis finished his bread and bowl of stew and leaned back in his chair, relishing the temporary feeling of having his hunger satisfied and being both warm and relatively comfortable, an uncommon occurrence when they were travelling during a mission. Exhaling deeply he pulled himself from his seat and walked over to Athos, placing his hand softly on the man’s forehead and assuring himself that no fever was present. As he moved to pull Athos’ shirt back, he noticed two blue eyes staring at him in return. Holding the older man’s gaze for a moment to ensure he was aware and going to allow Aramis’ examination, he proceeded to pull back both shirt and bandage, gently prodding at the wound underneath.

 

“Looks good. No redder than yesterday and no signs of infection.”

 

Athos grunted in reply, having guessed that already since the wound didn’t pain him any differently from those in the past.

 

“How are you feeling?” Aramis asked.

 

“Well enough,” Athos paused, “considering”. His gaze wandered back to d’Artagnan before sending Aramis a questioning look.

 

“I haven’t had a chance to check yet but I will while you eat your supper.”

 

This earned another grunt from the older man but, at a stern look from Aramis, he pushed himself slowly out of his chair and sat down at the table where Porthos was already placing a full bowl infront of him. Athos poured himself a glass of wine, drinking deeply, and then glared at Porthos who had used the momentary distraction to pull the wine bottle away.

 

“The stew’s quite tasty. Reminds me of that little place we found in Montbard. You quite enjoyed it there, if I recall.”

 

Athos took a mouthful of the stew, chewing and swallowing before he looked up to answer. “Actually, I believe it was you who enjoyed Montbard, especially the attentions of that young barmaid, what was her name, Suzette?”

 

Porthos guffawed in laughter, “Yea, she was right spry, she was. Almost made a man forget King and country.”

 

A slight smile tugged at Athos’ lips as he spooned another bite into his mouth.

 

At d’Artagnan’s bed, Aramis was slowly peeling away the bandage covering the young man’s side, dampening it with a wet cloth where the wound had seeped and was now sticking to the gauze. “As I recall, Porthos, you had that young lady eating out of your hand. Thought you walked on water after you’d protected her honor from that group of rowdy young men.”

 

Porthos rolled his eyes, still grinning. “What else was I to do? You lot had retired early and the tavern owner turned a blind eye. Have to maintain the fine reputation of the King’s Musketeers, you know.”

 

Aramis hissed as the bandage came free, revealing swollen skin, puckered around an angry red wound. “Porthos, can you help me roll him? I need to see his back.”

 

Porthos stood on the other side of the bed and together the two men gently rolled d’Artagnan onto his good side, revealing an exit wound that looked significantly worse than the entry wound.

 

“Infected,” Aramis said, unnecessarily. The men knew that d’Artagnan’s continued fever and unresponsiveness was indication enough that the wounds had been left untreated for too long and had begun to fester.

 

“Drain or cauterize?” Athos asked.

 

Considering the state of both wounds again, Aramis finally replied, “Drain, I think. If we cauterzie there’s too great a chance that the infection will remain trapped beneath the skin.”

 

Draining the wounds would require the removal of both sets of stiches followed by a thorough cleaning. Porthos knew from experience that the process would be a painful one and he winced in sympathy for their young friend as they laid him down on his back again.

 

“What assistance do you require?” Athos asked.

 

“None from you my friend. You’re still recovering from your own wound and have pushed yourself too hard today already.” Athos looked ready to protest, but a raised hand from Aramis stopped him before he could utter a word. “Porthos, I’ll need more wine, clean bandages and my sewing kit.” At that, the medic turned back to d’Artagnan’s side and began to remove the stiches with a small knife.

 

At first d’Artagnan remained unaware of what was happening around him, but as Aramis began pressing on the newly unstiched entry wound, the young man began to moan and toss his head, his sounds of distress growing as the pus was cleaned from his side. Athos moved to the head of the bed, hushing the Gascon with soothing words while stroking his hair. Porthos, again on d’Artagnan’s other side, place a comforting hand on the man’s chest and ensured he remained still enough to allow Aramis to work.

 

“There,” Aramis spoke with satisfaction as the wound ran only with clean blood. “We’ll need to prop him up on his side again to do the same with his back.”

 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to lay him on his stomach?” Porthos asked.

 

“It would, but the pressure on his other wound would be too painful to endure,” responded Aramis.

 

Working together, the three men rolled d’Artagnan onto his side, but soon found that they were unable to hold him there without blocking Aramis’ access to the wound. Athos huffed and stood up, motioning for Porthos to back away from the bed. Aramis cast an amused look at Porthos as they watched the older man lay down beside the Gascon, positioning himself so that the boy lay partially on his front, leaning against the older man’s chest. In this position, Athos could continue to comfort the boy and stabilize him when the pain got too great.

 

“Well,” Athos looked at Aramis, “get on with it.” Attempting and failing to hide the grin on his face, Aramis motioned for Porthos to hold a candle closer to d’Artagnan’s back and began the painful process of draining the second wound. While the young man whimpered occassionally, his close contact with Athos seemed to be doing both men a world of good and soon Aramis was tying off his last stitch and securing a fresh bandage to the boy’s back.

 

“All done,” Aramis declared, slowly unrolling his body to a standing position. “Shall we lay the boy back down on the bed?” he questioned, eyes watching for Athos’ reaction.

 

“He seems to be resting comfortably, wouldn’t you say?” Athos queried. At Aramis’ nod he continued, “Then it seems ill-advised to disrupt his sleep.”

 

Expecting this outcome, Porthos repositioned the blanket across both men and then he and Aramis retreated back to the table to sit down. “Always knew you’d make a good pillow, Athos,” Porthos chuckled.


	5. Chapter 5

Athos did indeed make a fine pillow and d’Artagnan slept soundly through the night. And if Athos’ rest was equally as peaceful for holding his brother through the night, then that was just a bonus. Aramis and Porthos had similarly shared the other bed in the room, although Aramis stayed awake much later into the night, having slept for most of the previous day.

 

When Athos awoke, it was to the snoring of both men on the other bed and the rays of the early morning sun creeping into the room. d’Artagnan was still positioned in his arms but at some point during the night, he’d turned further onto his back than his front, releasing Athos from his position of human pillow. Looking down, Athos could see a fine sheen of sweat still covering the boy’s brow and he could feel the heat from the boy’s body even without touching him. Slowly, he started to extricate himself from the bed, taking great care not to awaken the sleeping man. Thinking himself successful as he sat with his feet on the floor at the side of the bed, Athos was startled by a thready voice from behind him.

 

“Athos…..”

 

Turning sideways on the bed, Athos was greeted by a pair of hazy brown eyes, clearly still clouded by fever and pain, but just as clearly recognizing him.

 

“d’Artagnan, how are you feeling, lad?” Athos asked as he placed a cool hand on the boy’s forehead.

 

The young man turned into the coolness and sighed. “Hot….tired….sore…..” The words trailed off and Athos thought him asleep again until he mumbled, “thirsty….”

 

Pouring a fresh cup of water, Athos supported the boy’s head so he could drink without choking. After finishing nearly the entire cup, d’Artagnan again opened his eyes. “You alright?”

 

Athos was taken aback by the question, surprise showing on his face, and he didn’t answer for several moments.

 

“Your shoulder….you were shot.” d’Artagnan tried to point, but stilled almost immediately, not having the strength the raise his arm.

 

“I’m fine, d’Artagnan, it’s you who’s had us all worried.” He reached forward and brushed the young man’s bangs out of his eyes, a gesture that garnered him a slight shift of the young man’s head in an attempt to move away. Athos huffed as he sat back and removed his hand.

 

“And Porthos?” d’Artaganan persisted.

 

“Also mending well,” Athos responded, quirking his head towards the other bed, “and snoring happily if the volume is any indication.” This earned him a small grin from the young man.

 

“So, d’Artagnan, “ the young man flinched at the suddenly serious tone, “explain to me why we had to discover your wounds ourselves after finding you unresponsive in your chair?”

 

The Gascon squirmed for a moment before realizing the pain that accompanied even so slight a movement. His face twisted and his eyes closed as he rode out the pain until it reduced to a managable level. As the pain eased, he realized that Athos was talking to him and his hand had returned to his head, carding fingers through his hair. “Breathe, d’Artagnan, you must breathe. Rest easy, the pain will pass.”

 

Shakily he exhaled and then drew a shallow breath, not realizing that he had been holding it, then opened his eyes a few seconds later to meet the concerned gaze of his mentor. “I’m alright,” he stammered, “it’s fine. Just caught me off guard.”

 

“Mmmm, pain has a way of doing that,” Athos allowed. “Now, back to my earlier question. Why did you not tell Aramis about your wounds and ask for help?”  


“It wasn’t done on purpose, I mean, I didn’t intentionally hide it from him.” d’Artagnan paused at the look he was receiving from Athos. “I mean, I didn’t want him to know initially, but I was going to ask him for help once he’d taken care of you and Porthos.” He took another shaky breath before continuing, “I just couldn’t stay awake any longer and once I had taken care of Porthos and was waiting for him to finish with you…” d’Artagnan shrugged, “I guess I fell asleep before I could tell him.”

 

Athos looked at him sternly, “That still doesn’t explain why you didn’t say anything sooner. Surely you understood the severity of your wounds and the risk of infection that delayed treatment posed.”

 

d’Artagnan gave a half-hearted shrug, “Wasn’t so bad and I thought it could wait. You and Porthos were worse off and needed to be seen to first.”

 

Athos’ face clouded at the young man’s statement and he turned away as his lips drew into a thin line, clearly waring with himself over what to say next.

 

“Athos?” d’Artagnan started hesitently, “I just wanted to make sure the two of you were alright.”

 

The older man rounded on him, his face thunderous, “And do you not think that we want to know the same of our brothers? Do you not believe that your wellbeing is as important to us as our wellbeing is to you? And what of Aramis’ guilt at not realizing earlier that you were hurt? Did you even stop to consider how selfish your actions were?”

 

The Gascon’s mouth hung open, startled by the ferocity of Athos’ words, he didn’t know how to respond. Athos stood and began walking towards the door to leave. “Athos, please,” d’Artagnan pleaded, “that’s not how it was. I could not bear it if something happened to any of you...” The young man’s words were cut off by Athos’ departure, the older man not even stopping to look back when d’Artagnan had started to speak.

 

Shaken by the older man’s reaction, d’Artagnan began to lift himself up from the bed, intending to chase after his mentor but a hand on his shoulder prevented his escape. “Leave him,” Aramis stated, “he’s upset and his words were spoken in anger. He’ll see reason once he’s had a chance to cool down.”

 

d’Artagnan seemed inclined to protest but Aramis would not be moved. “I need to have a look at your wounds,” he started, placing a hand on the other man’s brow, “and you’re still feverish. Better than yesterday but still not as cool as I’d like.” As Aramis began removing the dressings from his side, d’Artagnan noticed that Porthos was also awake now and had silently followed Athos out of the room.

 

“Aramis, you know this isn’t your fault….right?”

 

“Mmmm,” was the only reply he received as Aramis continued to examine his wounds.

 

“I figured they weren’t too bad since I was still up and standing. Porthos couldn’t even stand on his own, and Athos was so pale and still when you were trying to stop the bleeding, and I knew you couldn’t take care of all three of us, so-“

 

Aramis stopped what he was doing, leaning back in his chair, and simply looked at the Gascon, causing the young man to stop talking once he realized he’d been rambling.

 

“Do you really have so little faith in your brothers?” Aramis queried, crossing his arms.

 

“What?” d’Artagnan asked in confusion.

 

“I said, do you really have so little faith in us?” Aramis repeated.

 

“No, I trust you all with my life…” d’Artagnan began before being interrupted by Aramis.

 

“Clearly your actions suggest otherwise.” Aramis paused, waiting for understanding to dawn on the younger man’s face. Sighing when the look of confusion remained, he continued, “d’Aratagnan, as a Musketeer we put our lives into each other’s hands, trusting that our brothers will stand with us to make us stronger and support us when we falter.” Aramis raised his hand when it appeared that d’Artagnan was going to speak. “That means we need to know when someone is hurt so that we can adjust our strategy accordingly and not place anyone else in danger.” Aramis looked down at his lap for a moment, considering his next words. “d’Artagnan, how would you feel if one of us suffered with the pain of an untreated wound in order to tend to you instead?” Aramis stopped d’Artagnan with another look, capturing his gaze and holding it as he went on, “How would you feel if you had been able to help one of us, but had that opportunity stolen from you because you were unaware that we needed help?”

 

This time he waited for d’Artagnan to gather and voice his thoughts. “I think I would be angry with you, probably as angry as Athos is with me right now,” d’Artagnan replied quietly. The young man looked down at his lap, playing idly with a corner of his blanket, unsure of how to continue. “Sorry,” he mumbled, still unable to meet the other man’s eyes.

 

“Mmmm,” Aramis offered with a slight smile on his face. Reaching forward again he covered both wounds with a light covering of salve to aid in healing and stave away infection, talking as he worked to redress the wounds, “These are finally starting to heal nicely and the infection seems to be clearing up.” A slight pause prefaced his next words, “We had to open them both yesterday to drain them. It was, “ he paused again to consider his words, “unpleasant - for us _and_ you, I think.”

 

The magnitude of Aramis’ words struck the younger man as he comprehended how his brothers must have felt, knowing they were causing him additional pain but having no choice because the wounds had become badly infected. “Sorry,” he mumbled again, and Aramis patted his arm in understanding.

 

“So long as you learn from this, all will be forgiven.” This time, the sentiment was accompanied by a broad smile and d’Artagnan smiled shyly back.

 

“Now, I prescribe some broth and more rest for you. I expect that Athos will want to ride out tomorrow and we need you fit and able to manage the trip.” d’Artagnan accepted the cup of broth offered by Aramis without protest and finished it completely before asking for some bread and finishing nearly half before his eyes started to droop. Wordlessly, Aramis took the bread from his hands and helped the young man back into a fully reclined position so that he could sleep.

 

Stretching his back, Aramis took a last look at the younger man before turning towards the door, intending to find his other two brothers.

 

**___________________________________________________________________________________________**

 

Athos had not gone very far, ending up at a table in the inn’s common room where he secured a bottle of wine and promptly started drinking. Porthos spotted him immediately, retrieved a second bottle of wine and another glass, and sat down across from him without a word. Athos merely glanced at Porthos in acknowledgement of the other man’s presence and refilled his glass, emptying it at an impressive rate before refilling it again.

 

Porthos was content to wait until Athos had a cooler head, and sipped his glass of wine at a much slower pace than that of his friend. After Athos’ fourth glass – or was it his fifth? – the older man seemed ready to talk about what happened and Porthos made his first attempt at conversation.

 

“He fools us sometimes,” Porthos stated, drawing out his words “he seems to be all grown up and the lessons we teach him seem to have taken, and then he does something like this.”

 

Across the table, his statement was met with a grunt. “He’s always so eager to please, worried about what we think of him and how his actions might affect his chances of joining our ranks.”

 

Another grunt indicated that Athos was still paying attention and his wine guzzling had slowed down to more infrquent gulps.

 

“Wonder if all younger brothers are this much trouble?” Porthos asked with a glint in his eye.

 

“d’Artagnan’s not trouble,” Athos defended, “he’s just young and inexperienced.”

 

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but why would he willingly place the lives of his brothers above his own?” Porthos questioned.

 

“Is that not what the Musketeers do?” Athos replied. “Is that not what all of us would do for each other?” Porthos remained quiet, a knowing look on his face.

 

Athos groaned as he wiped a hand across his face. “Yes, that is what we do, but d’Artagnan must realize that his life is not unimportant. If he were to die, I could not….” Athos trailed off but Porthos knew what had remained unsaid because he felt it too. _If he were to die, I could not bear it._

 

The two men sat in silence for several minutes, contemplating the innocent, impetuous, loyal boy that was their younger brother –one who had single-mindedly wormed his way into their family. They were joined by Aramis who had found his own glass and pointedly filled it from Athos’ wine bottle before sitting next to Porthos.

 

“So, what has you two so morbidly quiet, hm?” Aramis took a drink of his wine, grimacing slightly at the sour taste. “A rather unremarkable vintage,” he stated, swishing the remaining wine around in his glass.

 

Porthos grinned at the comment while Athos rolled his eyes and took another drink.

 

“We’ve been reflecting on our young man upstairs, wonddering how to make him less…” Athos trailed off, searching for the right word.

 

“Infuriating?” offered Porthos.

 

“Brash?” suggest Aramis.

 

“Self-sacrificing,” finished Athos. The other two men shared a look, neither agreeing or disagreeing, but it was true that the boy seemed to posses little instinct for self-preservation, especially when his fellow Musketeers were concerned.

 

“His heart still rules his head and if this doesn’t change I shudder to think of the end that will befall him.” Athos stated.

 

“Then it’s a good thing he has three older brothers to look out for ‘im, isn’t it.” Porthos rebutted.


	6. Chapter 6

When the three men returned to their room d’Artagnan was still resting peacefully and a hand on his forehead confirmed that while still present, his fever was much improved. Aramis and Porthos claimed the other bed and, once undressed down to their smalls, arranged themselves comfortably under the blanket together. Athos had brought with him a fresh bottle of wine and he sat next to d’Artagnan’s bed, intending to watch over him while he drank.

 

Morning found Athos still in the chair next to the Gascon’s bed, with his head slumped uncomfortably to one side. This was how d’Artagnan discovered him upon waking as he carefully lifted himself up onto his elbows, startled to find that he was the first one awake. Deciding to collect breakfast for his brothers, d’Artagnan slowly levered himself to an upright position, adjusting to the change in elevation by sitting on the bed for a few moments. When he felt ready he pushed himself carefully off the bed and dressed in his shirt and breeches.

 

The trip down the stairs was less painful than the last time he’d made it, but by the time he was returning to the room, he felt winded and worn out again. He reasoned with himself that after Athos’ anger at him the previous evening, the least he could do was to bring the man his morning meal. Setting the basket of food on the table, d’Artagnan was startled to find the other three awake and staring at him. “I brought breakfast,” he said, pointing at the basket. He began laying the food out on the table only to be stopped by Porthos who placed a hand on his. Looking up at the swarthy man he saw Porthos shake his head no.

 

Next, Aramis grasped his arm and led him back to the bed where Athos pushed him back down to sit. “You’re supposed to be resting so you can heal.” Aramis began as he lifted d’Artagnan’s shirt to gain access to his wounds.

 

“Getting us breakfast don’t count as resting.” Porthos added, unpacking the basket.

 

“So you’re going to sit here and let Aramis check your wounds. Then you’ll eat a proper breakfast and you’ll rest here while we get the horses ready,” Athos finished.

 

d’Artagnan looked from one man to the next, realizing that there was no argument he could successfully make against their combined force. Sighing, he resigned himself to being looked at and rebandaged by Aramis, and then ate everything Porthos placed infront of him in an effort to appease his friends. When he was finished he made to stand but a look from Athos had him sitting back against the wall behind the bed instead. Athos smiled at that and inclined his head slightly in satisfaction at the action.

 

By the time that the horses were saddled and they were ready to go, d’Artagnan was restless and anxiously waiting for permission to leave his bed. Receiving a last warning from Aramis to let them know if the pain of riding became too great, d’Artagnan was finally allowed to leave and happily made his way out of the inn where the horses were waiting.

 

Mounting his horse was painful but d’Artagnan managed it without too much difficulty, stifling a groan that threatened to be voiced at the act. If he thought his brothers had been fooled, he was mistaken, and the three men shared a silent vow that one of them would stay beside the Gascon for the duration of their trip to Paris. They set out at a slow walk, allowing d’Artagnan to adjust to the motion of the horse beneath him and minimizing the pull on his wounds every time the horse shifted.

 

As expected, the young man didn’t voice any complaints but as the day wore on the Musketeers could see lines of pain around d’Artagnan’s eyes and his face gathered a fine sheen of sweat as he battled silently with the pain. “Enough,” Portos stated, “you’ve been biting your lip in pain for the last hour and if you sway any more, we’ll be pickin’ you up off the ground.”

 

He reached over and grabbed the reins of d’Artagnan’s horse, pulling both mounts to a stop. Ahead, Athos and Aramis had also stopped at Porthos’ exclamation and were now turning their horses back to regroup with the other two men. Aramis pulled his horse next to d’Artagnan’s and cast a careful eye over him before proclaiming that it was time to stop and rest. Porthos led d’Artagnan’s horse into the shade of nearby tree, dismounted and tied up both horses, then turned to help the younger man down.

 

d’Artagnan barely stifled a groan as his body protested the motion of dismounting and for a few moments Porthos bore all of the other man’s weight as he waited for the Gascon to become aware enough to stand on his own. When d’Artagnan nodded, Porthos led him the few steps to the tree and gently lowered him to a sitting position against the trunk.

 

Aramis was already waiting for him and immediately pulled at the young man’s shirt to get access to his side. To his pleasure, both wounds still looked good and none of the stiches had been torn. Athos passed Aramis a water skin and he helped d’Artagnan drink his fill, before lowering him back to lay on the ground, a folded cloak under his head as a pillow. It was a clear sign to the three men that their young friend was not only in pain but also exhausted as he didn’t protest their care at all and was asleep within moments of laying down.

 

The Musketeers moved to stand several feet away from where the young man lay sleeping, Aramis and Porthos looking expectantly at Athos. After a moment, Athos looked up from the ground, stating, “It’s only a few more hours’ ride to Paris. While the situation is less than ideal, the danger posed by spending a night out of doors is too great.” Athos caught Aramis’ gaze, asking, “Can the boy make it?”

 

Aramis had been expecting the question and he nodded slowly in reply. “His wounds are healing and are clear of infection. He’ll be uncomfortable, but he’ll be fit enough to ride after an hour or two of rest.”

 

Their plans made, the three returned to take care of the horses and then settled at d’Artagnan’s side to wait until he awoke.

 

**____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________**

 

It seemed that d’Artagnan was not to get the rest he so badly needed as he startled awake to Porthos’ gentle shaking a mere three quarters of an hour later. As he opened weary eyes, he caught sight of Porthos’ concerned look. “You ‘ad a nightmare. Thought it’d be better to wake you than to let it go on.” d’Artagnan nodded in acknowledgement of the other man’s words. “You alright now?” Porthos asked.

 

“Fine,” d’Artagnan replied, running a hand over his face to wipe away the last vestiges of sleep. “I’m fine,” he repeated. “Is it time to go?” he asked, motioning towards the horses with his head, where Athos and Aramis had begun their preparations to depart.

 

“If you feel up to it, then yes. It would be prudent on our part to reach Paris before dark.” Athos explained.

 

The young man simply nodded his agreement and moved to stand, gratefully clasping Porthos’ extended hand so that he could be pulled to his feet. Porthos released his hand once he was certain the young man had his feet under him, but stayed close as they walked to d’Artagnan horse before helping him to get seated in the saddle.

 

“d’Artagnan,” Athos began, “we would like to reach Paris before nightfall tonight, however,” he paused, considering his words, “our arrival time is unimportant when compared to the state in which we arrive. Understood?”

 

d’Artagnan ducked his head, a grin gracing his face. “Understood.”

 

Athos nodded and motioned with his hand for his two companions to take the lead while he positioned his horse next to the younger man’s so that he could keep watch over him during the ride. While d’Artagnan expected to feel annoyance at the man’s words and actions, he felt instead a slow warmth spreading through his chest. Here, with these three men, he had truly found safe harbour.


End file.
